Imaginative? Not in the least. He was a farm hand before the war.
The Visitor (persistently). Still, in his delirium—
The Surgeon (interrupting). He wouldn't rave like a poet. You forget; I have listened to so many others. (He pauses.) You think I am credulous. Perhaps. I neither affirm nor deny. They tell me of these things they call miracles—
The Visitor (interrupting). And you ask no explanation?
The Surgeon. Why must there be one?
The Visitor. There always is.
The Surgeon. Yes; generally more miraculous than the miracle itself. (He pauses; then, with solemnity.) When, in the twentieth century, I myself have seen millions of men leaving their peaceful homes, their work, their occupations, to kill one another, I say that is such a dreadful, such an unbelievable miracle that next to it everything else becomes insignificant. If this paperweight were to turn into a roaring lion before my eyes I would say that too was a miracle—but that all of humanity had been witness to a greater! (The first door opens slowly.)
The Visitor (calling attention to it without alarm). The door is opening again. (The Surgeon goes to it without a word; closes it.)
The Visitor (as he does so). You would say
